Hunted
by Inked-Pawprints
Summary: " Stumbling along the top of the ravine, he put a hand against a pine to steady his shaking state. The choirs in his head sung with warning and silence, a melody reserved for the hunted. " / Oneshot / Blood / Gore / PruCan


Written to "Breath of Life" by Florence + the Machine.

I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

The world was spinning.

The man traveled like a feral spirit, flitting between trees, his tracks barely leaving indents in the white surroundings. His breath made gentle clouds that hung heavily in the air, a smoky fog that curled and twisted in the sharp breeze before deconstructing into the chilled day.

He walked quickly, with purpose and prowess, his black cloak stark against the color-bleached forest of silver birches and timber. His sword tapped against his hip; it was a faint note that harmonized with the sound of the buckles and straps from his garments, a thin sound that echoed in the ever empty wood.

He was wounded, that much he was sure of. The extent didn't matter as long as he was able to keep moving, keep ahead of his pursuers until he crossed the border into safety. He still had a few miles, but that was nothing next to the pressing threat of the relentless nation after his blood. He knew how it felt to be cheated, and could only hurry his pace when the idea of a gypped Russia presented itself to his mind.

He had spent over thirty years being Russia's prisoner when the nation of Prussia was disbanded, thirty years of dealing with psychotic breaks and childish innocence. Thirty years in a cell, yearning for death to come and relive him of the torture that came to be a daily routine. Thirty years of wanting and wishing and the abuse of hope. Years apart from humanity, spent in pain and starvation. A grimace pulled across his face as he forced himself to stop thinking of his recent past, the conception already leaving his heartbeat humming in his chest like war drums.

Red ran loose patterns down his arm, dipping into the crevice of his elbow and flecking the pure snow with rhinestones of deep russet, beautiful and unsettling. Choosing a few choice words, he ripped a thin piece of his already tattered cloak, continuing onwards while binding his limb. If that wasn't a marker to where he had been, he didn't know what was.

He had been traveling for days like this, always on the move to escape the vast landscape. Nations knew where one started and another ended, and his sense told him he wasn't far from his love, his hope, his everything. He could already feel the promise of better lands, the air changing as good will was sent his way, the feeling hardening his will to make it back home, like he promised.

Stumbling along the top of the ravine, he put a hand against a pine to steady his shaking state. The choirs in his head sung with warning and silence, a melody reserved for the hunted.

Too late, the hair on the back of his neck stood to attention, instinctual and afraid.

Too late, he turned, eyes narrowing to slits as he realized who had found him.

Too late, he wished that he could see Canada one last time.

Russia hit him like a dead weight, fingers reaching around his neck to strangle him in a headlock, brutally fast and forever deadly. Then again, he was Russia. The tundra. The wild.

The momentum carried both over the edge of the bank, writhing and collapsing onto the ground below. For a split second, the grip on his neck loosened, and he was able to use his size to an advantage, twisting out of the choke hold and rolling to the side, avoiding a stab to his heart.

"Prussia! How nice it is to see you. I missed you. You need to be punished, though. You have been very bad. You stole away my Matvey." Russia flipped over, sliding to a stop so he could face him from a distance.

He backed up a few more feet, realizing his enemy stood between the border and his feet. How _wonderful_. "Go to Hell." He smirked at the angered face of the nation standing across the ten foot span, feeling a sick delight in the way Russia took a moment to compose his face at the barbed comment.

"After you, my dear friend. I've gotten very tired of tracking you. You are so hard to follow! It wasn't very nice."

" I didn't want you to find me."

"Oh? But I missed you. You are hurting my feelings."

"Good, then."

Scowling, Russia flipped the pipe he held in his hands over and pointed the head at Prussia. "You are very bad, hurting my feelings and taking Matvey. I will kill you."

"Come at me, bro."

"That is not funny."

"It really is, if you'd give it a chance. Do you remember me asking you that? To give me a chance? But you didn't, so I had to settle on stealing _my_Matthew away from a mental nation such as yourself."

"I hate you."

"Good, then. I feel the same way about you."

He didn't have time to continue the conversation as Russia flew at him, knife in one hand, pipe in other. Prussia dodged, and managed to sprint a precious distance toward the border before Russia landed in front of him, smacking his ribs with the metal faucet.

A crunch was heard as his bones caved inwards, blood spilling out of his mouth and spraying the ground below.

"Bastard! Why in Gott's name won't you let me be! I spent thirty-odd years in your care!"

"Because, you have been very bad. I can't let someone as bad as you be with my Matvey."

"He was never yours to begin with!" Another crunch, and he felt his wrist snap under the weight of Russia's boot.

"He will always be mine."

"Never." He snarled the one word, hearing his feelings evident in his voice. Pulling from his last reserve of strength, he kicked Russia away and drew his sword, tightening his fist around the pommel and taking note of his opponent's vital points. This would not be an easy fight. Russia was skilled and much taller; the advantages Russia possessed outweighed any real chance he had.

However, there was one thing he had that Russia did not.

He was Prussia, the ex-nation of awesome and cunningness.

Steel clashed against steel as both fought for an upper hand, neither surrendering while merciless injuries ran rivers of red. Scarlet was thrown against a backdrop of white, splattering and painting the circle from which they fought around an abhorrent art, beautiful in the way only the sick could imagine.

There was a pattern, Prussia realized, to his fighting method. It was always a blow with his pipe, then two stabs with the knife, one forehand, one backhand. It was a unpredictable rhythm, but it worked. If Russia was merely pretending, however, then he stood no chance of recovering to chase a whisper of a promise to win.

He sprang at Russia like an unchained wolf, aiming and ready to end this primal dance of swords and knives.

He should have known.

The moment he leapt, Russia changed his tactic and brought down his pipe on Prussia's exposed back, rendering him helpless and pain-struck as agony dragged its hands through his nerves, setting his body afire with torment and anguish.

He fell, slumped, towards the ground.

Before his world fell dark, he heard a cry like a wounded animal, raw with emotion and screaming his name.

* * *

He awoke to warmth.

Groaning, he felt his body's handiwork first hand as he tried to sit up, muscles shrieking in protest and bruises complaining loudly. No broken bones, though – they had healed while he had been unconscious.

"Careful, careful, he gave you quite the beating! I have some tea- here, take it. It's the most you'll be able to have, the state your throat is in. What in God's name did you do to make him so angry? I've seen him mad, but not like this!" fingers pressed gently into the fabric of the clean, new shirt he found himself in, pushing him back into a propped-up pillow so he could rest in comfort.

Accepting the warm mug, he tried speaking. Finding it difficult with blotches of purple and blue ringing his collar bone from Russia's fingers, it took several tries until he could mutter a distinguishable answer.

"I 'stole' you."

"Ah, I see."

"Yeah."

A few moments of silence passed while he took a sip of the offered drink; the syrup soothed his damaged vocal chords like honey, and instantly made him feel much better.  
Clearing his throat, he began. "How did you save me?"

"You struck him with your sword, above the heart, before you fell. Really, it was a draw. I just had to drag you back here to clean you up and set the bones."

"Hmmm."

"Indeed."

" And what about him?"

"After you were cared for, I took him back to his sisters. They are currently fixing him much like I'm watching after you right now."

"I wish you wouldn't put it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm a child."

A laugh sounded in the bedroom, warm and hearty. Glaring, his ruby wine-colored eyes met blue bemused ones.

"But you certainly act like one, and more often than not I end up caring for you."

"Shush."

His comment was downed with more amused chuckles. Frowning, he turned to face Canada. "It's not funny. How long was I out, anyway?"

"A day or two. Your body was quite a mess. It's around 2:30 am now."

Setting his cup on the bedside table, he shifted and patted the space beside him. "If it's so early, why don't we just go back to sleep?"

"Are you feeling better?"

"Better…yeah, I'm doing okay."

Canada stood up from where he sat, climbing over Prussia and snuggling up under the blanket. Seconds later, he was tugged down into a hug, satisfying and gentle. Sighing contentedly, Matthew closed his lavender eyes and buried his head farther into their embrace, entwining their fingers as he did so.

Turning off the lamp, Prussia kissed the top of Matthew's head before hugging the blond to his body, already feeling the drowsiness of sleep press upon his mind.

"I'm glad you were there to save me."

"Me too."

"I love you."

Reaching up, Canada caught his lips in a soft kiss before snuggling up against him once more.

"I love you too. Night, love."

"Sweet dreams."

"Mhmmmm."

The world spun with love and hope and dreams as both fell asleep.

Everything was alright.


End file.
